


better than a bow

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bit of topping from the bottom, Blow Jobs, Bossy Bottom John Watson, Bottom John Watson, Christmas Smut, Come Marking, Come play, Cum Play, Face-Fucking, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Prompt Fic, Smut, Topping from the Bottom, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: This Christmas, John and Sherlock agree to keep it small. Just the two of them, nothing fancy, no big presents.Even so, John can't help but surprise Sherlock with a special gift.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 113
Collections: Festive Johnlock Collection





	better than a bow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [detafo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/detafo/gifts).



> Here I am, yet again writing smut for a Johnlock collection. Are we shocked? Probably not. 
> 
> Prompted by Detafo on Twitter, who spotted some very interesting pants on the interwebs. 
> 
> Along with this lovely little idea: _Sherlock getting all hot and bothered and gets surprised when he discovers John's been preparing himself to ride Sherlock's 'candy cane' into Christmas morning._
> 
> Hope you enjoy your smutty gift, friend! 
> 
> Also, to everyone else - heed the disclaimer in the end notes and Happy Holidays.

They’d settled on a quiet Christmas this year, decided to keep it small. No extravagant gifts, no big parties. Just a tree, some lights to brighten up the place, and the two of them spending the season together. 

Simple. After the past few years they’d had, they deserved it.

When John asked him what he wanted, Sherlock said, “Nothing.” At John’s raised eyebrow, he amended, “You. Just you.” 

“You have me every day of the year,” John pointed out. “Hardly seems special.”

Affronted at hearing John sell himself short, Sherlock shot him a glare. “Every day with you is special, John Watson.” 

“How deeply sentimental of you,” John teased, moving to stand between Sherlock’s legs where he sat in his chair. “Shall I wear a bow for you on Christmas Day, then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in good-natured acceptance of the ribbing. “So long as that’s _all_ you’re wearing.”

“Naughty.” John tilted forward and dropped a lingering kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I like it.”

Sherlock hummed and pressed forward into the kiss. But it was over far too soon, and he scowled when John leaned away and stepped back from between his legs. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, watching John cross the sitting room and pause in the doorway to the stairs. 

John’s eyes glittered, and he tipped Sherlock a wink. “Out,” he said, a hint of mischief slipping into his voice. 

Frowning, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But it’s Christmas Eve. Where could you possibly have to go?”

He received a sharp little smirk in response as John shrugged on his jacket, paired with a cheeky wink. “I’m off to find a bow.” 

John left for a little under two hours. When he returned, he refused to answer any of Sherlock’s questions about his whereabouts. Instead, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and a glass of mulled wine into his hand, leaving Sherlock to pout as John settled before the fire with a book. 

As the alcohol seeped into his body, warming his belly and making his limbs grow heavy, Sherlock felt himself relaxing. Deducing John within an inch of his life seemed too much like unnecessary effort. Effort better spent enjoying the view from where he sat half-melted on the sofa. 

And what a view it was, with John sat before the fire, the flames setting his silver-shot, dishwater-blonde hair alight until it looked like spun gold. He looked like a bronzed statue depicting the comfort of some godly man, and Sherlock drank in the sight alongside the mulled wine.

Overall, he was at ease. His drink was pleasant, the view even more so, and it was in such a state of relaxed comfort that led him into a light doze.

The time passed from late evening into late night, and it was just as the sound of Big Ben tolling midnight drifted through the windows that Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. A voice followed the touch, the soft murmur of his name, and he opened his eyes to see John leaning over him. The fading fire in the grate backlit him, his expressive face cast in fetching shadows, his outline burning copper from the banked flames. 

“John?” Rubbing sleep from his eyes, blinking to clear the haze hanging over his vision that made John appear ephemeral, Sherlock frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Still resting on his arm, John’s hand skated upward. The other joined until he was gripping Sherlock’s shoulders in a firm but comfortable hold. “Not at all,” he murmured, shifting closer until he was standing between Sherlock’s thighs. “Just thought you might like your gift now that it’s officially Christmas.” 

His mind still muddled by receding sleep, Sherlock asked in a groggy murmur, “Did you find a bow, then?”

Above him, John grinned. There was a sharp edge to the smile that made Sherlock blink and sit upright with his mind clear and instantly focused. 

“Found something better,” John replied, a coy tone making his words sound rich and playful. 

Eyes drifting down from John’s face, taking in his bare chest and moving lower, Sherlock wet his suddenly dry lips and rasped, “So... no bow?”

John’s grin shifted toward a smirk. “As I said, I found something better,” he purred, and Sherlock let his gaze move down, taking in the tight, red boxer briefs hugging John’s hips. 

Tight might have been an understatement — if someone had painted pants onto John, they still wouldn’t capture the effect these pants had. The way they hugged his waist and emphasized the curve of his hip bones, the dip of his groin, was beyond replication. And there, between those twin creases, was something far better than any bow Sherlock could dream up, even with his advanced imagination.

The pants did a stunning job of shaping themselves to the sweep of John’s cock. They outlined the length so well, Sherlock fancied he could see the thick vein running along the underside, the curve of John’s glans. And, if the clinging, clutching fabric wasn’t treat enough, printed on the front of the pants was a smug-looking Santa Claus, flashing a jolly thumbs-up with his sack thrown over his shoulder. The bag itself was no more than a black outline that would have encompassed the bulge of his package admirably on perhaps an average man. As it was, John was no average man, and the tight stretch of the fabric was already struggling — in vain, Sherlock noted with delight — to contain John’s growing erection. The front of the pants was almost obscenely tented.

Sherlock discovered the display had a magnetic effect, drawing and holding his gaze and refusing to let him look away.

“What’s this, then?” he asked, his voice still dry and raspy. Sherlock felt a little dizzy, all his blood no doubt rushing south for the winter. 

One pale eyebrow arched, John hummed. “Weren’t you listening?” His fingers tightened on Sherlock’s shoulders. Without conscious thought, Sherlock’s arms lifted, hands settling on John’s waist. His palms slid down skin bronzed by the fire, fingertips brushing over the boxer briefs’ soft, clinging material. 

“I may have been distracted,” Sherlock admitted, skating his palms along the muscles of John’s outer thighs. “Little disappointed that there’s no paper to unwrap,” he said, lifting his eyes to John’s face with a teasing smile. 

John’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. The expression was almost coquettish, at odds with the fiery gleam in his eyes. He tilted down and brushed his mouth over Sherlock’s ear in a husky whisper.

“Paper isn’t the only thing that you can unwrap.” His hands left Sherlock’s shoulders and settled over where Sherlock was plucking at the pants. “Don’t you want to open your present, Sherlock?” 

His breath catching in his throat, Sherlock stared up at John and sighed, in a soft, strained voice, “Oh, _god,_ I do.”

The corner of his mouth twitching upward in a little smirk, John squeezed Sherlock’s hands, still gripping his hips. “Well, then — best get to it, Holmes.” He dropped his hands back to Sherlock’s shoulders, one slipping around to cup Sherlock’s nape, fingers tangling in the soft curls. 

With a sense of reverence, his eyes unblinking and fixed on the dip of John’s groin, level with his face, Sherlock tilted forward. John’s fingers curled, fisting in Sherlock’s hair and holding him back with the lightest pressure. Sherlock’s eyes flickered upward, studied John’s playful expression and glittering gaze, and dropped again. 

Slowly, he slid his thumbs over the waistband of the pants. It was an elastic-silk blend, Sherlock was sure of it, the material smooth but clinging to John’s form beneath his touch. Sherlock swept his fingertips downward, traced the outline of John’s straining cock, making both of them groan. The sounds were low and hoarse, John’s drawing out over Sherlock’s own deeper rumble. 

Hearing it sent a jolt of want through Sherlock, right to his cock, which twitched and leaked in his pants. 

Sherlock circled the head of John’s cock where it pressed against the band of the pants, lifting the elastic material away from John’s skin. He slipped a finger down the length, root to tip and back, before pressing the end of his finger to the head. At once, a dark spot appeared beneath his touch, precum dampening the fabric. 

“So responsive,” Sherlock murmured, flicking his eyes upward and glancing at John from beneath lowered lashes. John stared back at him, his eyelids at half-mast, a deep flush of colour slowly spreading up his chest. Sherlock watched the blood travel upward, saw it bloom in John’s face and redden his cheeks. John’s eyes darkened with the flush, his pupils dilating until the blue of his gaze was nearly devoured by the black. 

A soft, breathy, _“Sherlock_ ,” answered his observation, and Sherlock’s lips curled upward in a little smile. Under his hands, one sliding down to cup the base of John’s cock and the curve of his bollocks in his palm, he felt John quiver. Like the outward ripple of a seismic event, the shiver raced through John’s body, over his skin.

When Sherlock dipped the tips of his index and middle fingers beneath the bottom of the pants, delving into the tight, humid skin of John’s pelvic crease, he felt goosebumps. 

“You might be right, John,” Sherlock said in a deceptively conversational tone that had John frowning down at him. “These are _much_ better than a bow.” He slipped his fingers higher, brushing the hot, soft skin of John’s left bollock, and John’s exhale stuttered out through his teeth. 

His head fell back, fingers gripping harder in the hair at Sherlock’s nape, the curls tangling in his hold and pulling Sherlock back against the couch. Sherlock let out a quiet grunt at the pressure, teeth scraping over his bottom lip until John softened his grip and freed Sherlock. 

Seizing the opportunity and using it to catch John unaware, Sherlock rocked forward and pressed his lips to John’s belly. With his hands back on John’s hips, fingers locked on the jut of bone beneath warm skin, Sherlock dragged his mouth over the fair trail of hair between the hem of the pants and John’s navel. His lower lip caught on John’s skin, pulled downward as Sherlock tilted his head up and back. With his eyes aimed upward, he found and held John’s gaze, and his tongue darted out, the tip flicking light over the curve of John’s belly button. 

_“God,”_ John groaned, his hands shifting to catch Sherlock’s shoulders in a vice-grip. _“God,”_ he repeated in that same tone, breathless and wanton before Sherlock fastened his mouth over the skin between pants and navel and suckled. The resultant sound from John, a wavering gasp that died into a moan, made Sherlock shudder. His cock, now thick, hard and straining against the confines of his pants and trousers, throbbed its protest.

Desperate to relieve some of the pressure, Sherlock dropped one hand from John’s hip and worked his fly open. Even that small release made him groan, and saliva dripped from his lips as he smeared his mouth messily over John’s stomach. The button went next, Sherlock working to push his trousers open and down one-handed as he dipped his tongue into John’s navel and swirled.

John’s knees buckled and steadied, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s shoulders hard enough to make Sherlock hiss. His brain immediately transformed the pain into pleasure. Sherlock leaned back just far enough to shuck off his trousers before returning to his focus: kissing his way, open-mouthed, down to the hem of John’s new pants. 

“What do you think?” His voice low and husky, Sherlock glanced up at John, at his flushed face and wet lips, swollen from John pressing his teeth into the soft flesh. “Should I unwrap my present?”

His tongue darting out and sticking briefly in the corner of his mouth before retreating, John released another shivering exhale and nodded. He made a soft, wheezing sound, cleared his throat and tried again, murmuring, “It’s technically been Christmas for fifteen minutes now. Not like you to dally, Sherlock.” 

A slow grin spreading over his face, Sherlock nodded with eager anticipation. He tipped forward, gripped John’s hips and pressed a lingering kiss to each of his iliac crests, close-mouthed and startlingly chaste after the hot, wet exploration of John’s lower belly. “I agree,” he murmured against warm skin, tasting the delicious little shiver that travelled through John. 

With his lips still pressed to John’s hip, Sherlock hooked his fingers in the waistband of the pants and slowly, displaying an uncharacteristic level of restraint, tugged them down. The fabric moved in inches, Sherlock taking his time. Unwrapping John like a true gift, revealing skin that immediately turned gold, licked into precious metal by the remains of the fire behind him. John’s breath came loud and heavy from above, the force of his exhales tangible beneath Sherlock’s lips on his skin, the tip of his nose where it rested just beneath John’s navel. 

Sherlock followed the path of the pants with his mouth, flicking his tongue out to taste and dragging it over skin and fine hair. He smelled the musky, humid scent of John’s groin before his lips met with the rough brush of John’s pubic hair. Sherlock mouthed at the curve of his skin beneath the curling hair, drawing a groan from John, and slipped lower. 

The tip of John’s cock brushed the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, leaving a sticky smear that dragged up over Sherlock’s chin as he moved lower. 

John was fully erect, foreskin stretched back to expose the red, swollen head of his erection. Already, he was leaking liberally. The smear on Sherlock’s jaw and chin was followed by another on his cheek before Sherlock turned his head, passing the very tip of his tongue along the rim. The result was instant, John jerking forward in an involuntary movement that drew his cockhead over Sherlock’s mouth. It caught there, nestled in the curve of Sherlock’s plush lips. 

Before it could slip away, Sherlock opened his mouth and let it rest, heavy, musky and tasting of salt, on his lower lip. 

He held perfectly still, letting John’s cock sit on his lip and pull it down, the slit leaking the taste of the ocean onto his waiting tongue. John’s hands moved from his shoulders to his jaw, cupped his face with thumbs smoothing over Sherlock’s hard, sharp cheekbones. His eyes flickering upward, Sherlock saw John gazing down at him with something like awe. Twin points of heat burned like supernovas in his cheeks, his breath rushing out in a too-fast, irregular pattern.

“Gorgeous,” John whispered, dragging his thumbs over either side of Sherlock’s mouth. His cock twitched, throbbing against the delicate flesh of Sherlock’s lip. With the pants halfway down John’s thighs, snugged just beneath the base of his cock, his erection was held in place by the band just beneath. 

Eyes locked on John’s, Sherlock pressed his tongue forward. The flat of it met the curve of John’s cock, the tip flicking over the slit, spreading salt and musky precum over Sherlock’s tastebuds. Eyelids fluttering, Sherlock groaned and tilted forward, suckling the head of John’s cock into his mouth. John’s fingers tensed, held his face harder before releasing to slide upward. Nails lightly scratching over Sherlock’s scalp, John gripped his curls. 

“Can — Sherlock, can I — ?” 

Nodding, angling his head up and forward to take more of John into his mouth, Sherlock closed his eyes and softened his throat in preparation. The clenching pressure of John’s fingers in his hair inspired a sensory memory, reminding Sherlock of the first time they’d done this. He’d had to work at it, train his throat and gag reflex to bend to his will just so he could finally take all of John into his mouth. It had been a mess, all drool and trying not to gag with John whimpering as Sherlock breathed furiously through his nose, but it had paid off in the end. 

Now, with countless mouth-fucking campaigns beneath his belt, Sherlock fell into it with ease. His throat softened, his eyes closed, and he curled his lips around his teeth as his tongue cupped the veiny underside of John’s cock. It was hot and heavy in his mouth, and the first slide, the slow, drawn-out push as John let him grow accustomed to the stretch of his lips, made Sherlock tremble with eager desire. 

“Oh, _god_ ,” John was panting above him, one hand locked in Sherlock’s curls, the other cupping his jaw. His thumb traced the shape of Sherlock’s mouth, the stretched-wide strain of his lips. Sherlock’s fingers, gripping John’s thighs, rubbed encouraging circles against his skin, and John, taking the unspoken invitation, pushed deeper. 

His cock dragged over Sherlock’s tongue, pressed it down into the bottom of his mouth and rubbed precum along the top. There was pressure, Sherlock’s throat clenching instinctively until Sherlock wrestled control back over his body, and it eased. 

With one final push, this one a smooth snap of John’s hips, the head of his cock brushed the back of Sherlock’s throat, and, with practiced poise, Sherlock swallowed around it. 

John jerked at once, tugging Sherlock’s curls at the roots until he softened. Petting Sherlock’s mussed hair in silent apology, John pulled back, wiped salty musk over Sherlock’s lips, and pushed back in. The rhythm was slow at first, a slick, smooth drag of cock in and out of Sherlock’s willing mouth, but it didn’t stay that way. John’s breathing quickened, his panting shifting into hard gasps. He fucked into Sherlock’s mouth with increasing force until every thrust was punctuated by a brush of soft fabric against Sherlock’s chin. By the hot, hard press of cock to the back of his throat. 

Just as he began to stiffen, cock thickening and pulsing in Sherlock’s mouth, John drew back. His cock slipped free with an obscene slurping noise, spit and precum trickling from the corners of Sherlock’s swollen, flushed lips. 

“Don’t want to come,” John gasped, staring down at Sherlock with his chest heaving, one hand still buried in Sherlock’s hair. “Not… not finished with you yet. Now,” here he bent down until their mouths were hardly more than a hair’s breadth apart, lips brushing as John spoke, “finish unwrapping your present, Sherlock Holmes.” His cock, hard and slick with Sherlock’s saliva, nudged against Sherlock’s bare leg, and Sherlock groaned. 

Surging forward, reaching blindly, Sherlock hooked fingers back into the hem of John’s pants, drawing them down in one impatient, desperate shove. They slipped to John’s ankles, and he stepped out of them without preamble, sidling in between Sherlock’s parted thighs until his legs met the edge of the couch. 

“My turn,” he whispered, curling his spine to scrape his teeth over Sherlock’s earlobe. 

His breath wheezing out in an audible sigh, Sherlock sat back and lifted his hips as John curled his fingers into Sherlock’s tight, black pants. He drew them down in a teasing but unrelenting drag, Sherlock’s cock catching on the hem before bobbing free and making Sherlock groan with relief. The slit immediately dribbled a sticky trail over his lower belly, and John eyed the display as he tossed Sherlock’s pants onto the floor. Praise dropped from John’s lips, a rasping, “Beautiful,” followed by a blissful sigh when he dropped onto the couch, his knees planted on either side of Sherlock’s hips. “God, yeah, you’re perfect.” 

Sherlock lifted his hips at once, his cock sliding along the underside of John’s bollocks, still heavy and full from his near-orgasm. Enjoying the slow drag of cock over John’s perineum, Sherlock cupped John’s arse in his large hands, rubbing and kneading at the flesh. Slowly, he shifted his grip, tilting his head back with a groan as his fingers slipped between John’s cheeks, coaxed them apart, and encountered softened muscle and the viscous slick of lubricant.

“Naughty,” he whispered, eyes rolling back with another groan as his index and middle fingers slipped into John’s hole without resistance. Eyes flashing open, Sherlock cocked a brow up at John, who, balanced on his knees over his lap with one hand braced on the couch back next to Sherlock’s head, grinned down at him. “You planned this.” 

“I told you,” John slowly lowered himself, slipping down and taking Sherlock’s fingers deeper, “I couldn’t find a bow.” He let out a low groan at the penetration.

John’s body gripped his fingers in hot, slick heat, and Sherlock could only manage a low, rumbling moan in response. John, his hands gripping the couch for leverage, rocked his hips, leisurely fucking Sherlock’s fingers until the tips brushed his prostate, and he went rigid. Looking up at him, Sherlock watched in wonder as John’s head tipped back, the tendons standing out in his neck, his mouth open in a loud pant. 

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” he hissed out through his teeth. Head titling down, John stared at Sherlock with dark, blazing eyes. “You need to fuck me. You need to fuck me _right_ _now.”_

Amused and breathless at the sight before him, Sherlock smirked. “I thought this was meant to be _my_ present?”

“We both know you didn’t get me anything,” John growled. Eyes closed, he dropped his hands to Sherlock’s chest and kneaded his nails greedily into his bare skin. “Now, hurry up.”

Cheekily, Sherlock purred, “Yes, Captain Watson,” before hesitating. 

Catching the pause, John cracked open one eye and glared down at him. “What?”

Sherlock slipped his fingers from John’s arse and displayed his bare hands, his expression pure innocence. “Lube?” 

“Lucky for you,” John said, leaning back and grabbing blindly at the coffee table behind him, “I came prepared.” He bent, arching his back, his cock dragging against Sherlock’s stomach until he returned. Tilting forward, John claimed Sherlock’s mouth in a searing kiss. Tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth until Sherlock was groaning low in his throat and struggling to thrust his hips, John’s thighs pinning him down. 

Breaking the kiss, leaving Sherlock breathless, John popped the cap on the tube in his hand. He slicked up his fingers, dropped the lube onto the couch, and gripped Sherlock’s throbbing cock. It twitched and jolted in his grip. Sherlock let out a helpless moan when John stroked him root to tip, then again, twisting his hand on the third pass as he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth, “Now… hurry up and _fuck me,_ Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock sighed, his hips shifting restlessly, his body burning with need. _“Yes.”_

John tilted forward with a cocky grin on his face and balanced his weight on Sherlock’s heaving chest. Head ducked, Sherlock watched as John stroked him again and maneuvered himself before slowly, and with obvious restraint, sinking down onto Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock repeated himself, breathing, “Oh, god,” at the sensation of heat on the head of his erection. John held still, both letting himself adjust and keeping Sherlock in agony with just the tip of his cock sunk inside. 

“John,” he hissed when the seconds stretched out, and the waiting grew unbearable, _“move.”_

One eyebrow arched, his hands planted on Sherlock’s shoulders, John smirked. “Settle down, Holmes. All in due time.”

“John, if you don’t let me fuck you right now, I swear to god, I may die.” 

John snorted, his lust-darkened eyes dancing with mirth. “Ever the drama queen,” he teased. 

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock gripped John’s hips and bared his teeth. “John — it’s _Christmas.”_

“True,” John agreed. “I suppose that means,” he slid down a little, the heat of him punching the air from Sherlock’s lungs, “that I shouldn’t torture you.” 

“No, you shouldn’t—” Sherlock’s words cut off into a long, unsteady sound of rapture when John dropped down and seated himself fully in Sherlock’s lap. _“John.”_

John set the pace at first, lifting himself with little ripples of muscle, every rise and fall driving Sherlock closer to madness. It was only when John began to bounce on Sherlock’s lap that Sherlock found he could no longer take the shallow angle. 

He wrapped his arms around John’s torso and drew him into his chest. Tipping John’s lower body off his lap but maintaining the contact between them, Sherlock planted his feet on the floor. Base established, he rolled his hips experimentally, heard the catch in John’s breathing, and did it again. He repeated the motion, shifting the angle each time until he sank deep, his cock butting up against John’s prostate, and he earned a high, reedy shout from John. 

“Oh, fucking _yes_ ,” John groaned, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “God, yeah, right there, _fuck!”_ The last emerged as a grunt, Sherlock’s hips thrusting upward, driving hard and relentless along John’s prostate. Sherlock felt John’s lips against his shoulder, then his teeth, sinking against his skin and sending a thrill of pleasurable pain through him. 

With the sensation tingling in his fingers, Sherlock tightened his arms around John. He found a quick and deep pace, every thrusting roll of his hips rocking John into his chest and pulling moans from them both. 

“Slow — slow down,” John finally gasped, bearing down and pinning Sherlock to the cushions. 

Head lolling back against the sofa, Sherlock glared at him from half-open eyes. His face was sweaty, as was John’s, Sherlock’s curls plastered to his forehead. Huffing in frustrating, his cock twitching where he was seated deep inside John’s tight body, Sherlock muttered, “Bossy.” 

John flashed him a grin. “Shut up. We both know you love it.”

A low, _mmf_ was all Sherlock could manage as John began to ride him in controlled movements. The angle kept Sherlock deep, the penetration rubbing his cockhead over John’s prostate with every drop. After the quick, hard pace of before, this was a slow-build. A gradual burn toward combustion, the squeeze of John’s internal muscles coaxing Sherlock closer and closer to the edge he’d been pulled away from.

Hands on John’s hips, luxuriating in the powerful ripple of tendon and muscle under his fingers, Sherlock watched John with lowered lids, peering through his lashes. The effect was like looking through lace, the spidery haze of his eyelashes making John hazy and blurred. 

Without warning, John rose higher and dropped back, the suddenness of it making Sherlock jerk and gasp, his back arching off the couch and pushing him deeper. “John!” 

John smirked and shoved Sherlock back against the cushions, bearing down as he resumed his slow, relentless rhythm. “Don’t you dare fall asleep,” he warned, tilting forward to sink his teeth into Sherlock’s lip.

The nip spilled fire through Sherlock’s veins, and he let out a whine that, under any other circumstance, would have devastated his calm, collected demeanour. But here, with John chuckling against his mouth, Sherlock brushed any self-consciousness aside. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he gasped, hips rolling restlessly in time with John’s movements. Reaching between them, he gripped John’s leaking cock and gave a firm stroke to the hot flesh, earning himself a curse and another hard, burning kiss. 

“Yeah, _touch me.”_ John’s breath was a hot, humid pant against his neck, John ducking his head as he rode Sherlock a little harder, a little faster. “Fuck, Sherlock — make me cum.” 

The command made Sherlock shiver with anticipation, and he tightened his hold, stroking John with quick, twisting motions. John’s cock twitched, leaking continuously and slicking the way with precum. Sherlock felt John’s body tensing, felt the clench of his muscles around his cock. He sped his hand in time with the movements of his hips until John went rigid, threw back his head as his back arched, and shot cum over Sherlock’s chest. 

His orgasm was a gift of its own, and Sherlock watched John’s face with a sense of awe. His mouth stretched open around a groan that broke off into a silent gasp, his fingers clenching and nails digging into Sherlock’s red-marked chest. Another stripe of cum landed on Sherlock’s hand and arm, his shifting fingers as he coaxed John through his orgasm, John’s body gripping him in rhythmic contractions. 

When John finally went loose, slumping forward onto Sherlock’s chest with a huffed string of amazed curses, Sherlock was on the razor-edge of his own climax. 

He tightened his arms. John, quivering through his comedown, rubbed his cum into Sherlock’s spasming stomach muscles and over his chest as Sherlock thrust hard into his body. He did it again, groaning at the ragged sound John made in response, and once more before he came with an ecstatic surge of relief. 

Sherlock chanted John’s name in a litany of praise through his climax. He smoothed his hands over John’s skin, caressed the curve of a hip, clutching him close as he spilled his orgasm into John’s shivering body. The first pulse was hot and short, the second making Sherlock’s hips jerk, and pulling a helpless groan from deep in John’s chest. 

Locked together, they panted through Sherlock’s aftershocks and John’s comedown until Sherlock’s softened cock slipped from between John’s cheeks, and they slumped against the cushions.

“Fuck me,” John sighed, voice turned breathless and high by endorphins, and making Sherlock chuckle weakly as he looked down at the sticky display on his front. John had rubbed his cum all over Sherlock’s skin, spreading the mess of his release across Sherlock’s stomach and chest. 

Drawing an idle finger through the mixture of sweat and cum, Sherlock popped the tip into his mouth, slicked it clean with his tongue, and sighed, “Pretty sure I’ve already done that.”

John’s reply was a satisfied purr, and he pushed his face up beneath Sherlock’s jaw, his lips brushing Sherlock’s neck when he spoke. “Mm, you sure did.” Sherlock felt John’s grin against his throat, followed by the hot rush of his exhale as he added, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Long legs stretching out, muscles pleasantly sore from their coupling, Sherlock tilted his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of John’s jaw. 

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

**Author's Note:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Yes, this is TopLock. No, I do not want to hear about your personal opinion on who should and should not top. Nor do I want to hear your thoughts on John or Sherlock's fictional penises. Nor do I want to know about your sexual responses to my writing (god, just, please. No.) 
> 
> Just enjoy the smut for what it is, and go watch porn if you're looking for more.


End file.
